


Roseblind

by havisham



Category: Tam Lin (Traditional Ballad)
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Fairy Tale Retellings, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queer Themes, Rape/Non-con Elements, Roses, Strongly Implied Library Hookups, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24191131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: Ivo Carter, a former war photographer, is sent off to investigate the supposed haunted manor of Carterhaugh, but what really attracts his attention is the rose garden and the beautiful man who guards it. But one rash action on Ivo's part leads to drastic repercussions for everyone involved.Fate, Ivo discovers, cannot be avoided -- only rewritten.
Relationships: Janet/Tam Lin
Comments: 26
Kudos: 28
Collections: Once Upon a Fic 2020





	Roseblind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reine_des_corbeaux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/gifts).



There was a ghost that haunted the rose garden of Carterhaugh. 

The sightings of the ghost dated back to the 16th century, though the reports were always strangely vague about the exact details of the spirit -- some called it a handsome knight, others, a beautiful lady, and still others, strange animals of some sort. Ivo read the reports skeptically and thought if the Society hadn’t already paid for his train ticket to the land of his ancestors, he wouldn’t have taken it. 

Dad was always hazy about why the Carters had left Carterhaugh, but Ivo always thought it was down to his great-grandfather or some other being born on the wrong side of the blanket. As it was, none of the latter Carters had ever been able to buy back the ancestral lands. And in the long run, it was a good thing -- it was a new century after all. The last thing anyone wanted was a haunted manor and the accompanying frightful tax bill. 

Ivo was glad to have a use for his photographic talents -- he had gotten sick of taking pictures of the dead and dying during the war. He vastly preferred shooting pictures of Lady Finch’s rose garden. 

It was Lady Finch who had written to the Society about her ghosts -- she had read a story in the _Standard_ of an investigation that Palmerston had undertaken at a notoriously haunted Welsh rectory. During that investigation, Ivo had taken a photograph that could have been the face of long dead vicar at the window, or just a carelessly drawn curtain. That photograph had attracted Lady Finch’s eye and she had invited both Palmerston and Ivo up to see her. 

Palmerston had declined to leave his comfortable Bloomsbury flat. But Ivo had come eagerly. His dad had encouraged it, saying that it would be a good thing for Ivo take in the country air. 

There had been a good-sized party waiting for him at the train station, eager to know who had been sent down from the Society for Psychical Research to investigate the various ghosts of Carterhaugh, but as soon as Ivo had set up his camera and equipment in the rose garden, all of them had drifted away. The last of them, the very pert Miss Lavinia Finch, informed him that no one stayed in the rose garden long, especially in the evening time. And no one was allowed to pluck any of the roses without permission. 

“ _He_ doesn’t like it,” she said, putting her fingers through her long, blonde hair. She looked at Ivo slyly, as if she knew a great joke that he was not privy to. “It can be dangerous for unwary virgins.” 

“Miss Finch,” Ivo said with as much dignity as he could muster, “I cannot think that this is appropriate conversation for two young people who are not married.” 

“Married!” Miss Finch said with a shriek. “Why would I marry an old man like you? And Mother says you haven’t a penny.” She seemed to think better of her words and coughed. 

Ivo sighed. It was true that he was required to work for his living, but he didn’t see why that meant he would have to endure the rudeness of the young.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Carter,” said the contrite Miss Finch. “Please don’t tell my mother I said that.” 

“Consider it forgotten, Miss Finch.” 

With an awkward farewell, Miss Finch quit Ivo’s company, making her jaunty way to the gates and closing them behind her with a heavy metal clang. Ivo watched her go in astonishment. He took off his hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. 

“Extraordinary girl,” he said. “It’s true I haven’t a penny. But calling me an old man is wrong -- I’m only twenty-six.” 

“Twenty-six may as well be seventy for the young,” said a voice in Ivo’s ear. Ivo looked around, for he had thought he was quite alone. He had been wrong, apparently, for beside him was an extraordinarily handsome man of approximately his age and height, looking at Ivo with an amused look in his light grey eyes. 

“Oh! I am sorry,” Ivo said, feeling self-conscious. “I thought I was alone here. Are you related to the Finches?” Even as he said it, he doubted it. The Finches, to a person, had all been a fair-haired family. This stranger was dark and with a face that seemed as if carved from marble. 

“Hardly,” said the stranger. He was dressed like a gentleman, although he was somewhat out of fashion. Ivo was sure he hadn’t seen that cut of jacket since before the war. However, it would be rude to notice such things -- not everyone had as indulgent of a father as he did, or the freedom to pursue their dreams like he did - so Ivo put his hand up to be shaken. “My name is John Brooke Carter, but everyone calls me Ivo.” 

“Why do they call you Ivo?” asked the stranger, taking Ivo’s hand but not shaking it. His grip was firm and Ivo doubted he could extract his hand without a noticeable struggle. 

“Well, there were seven other Johns at school, and two other Carters. Even my father calls me Ivo now. What’s your name?” He put a particular emphasis on this last question and his companion noted it with a smile. 

“Tom Lynn,” he said, relinquishing Ivo’s hand at last. He seemed to want to drift away, but Ivo stopped him. 

“May I take your picture? The light’s going but there should be enough for one more.” 

“Why?” Tom asked him. He was an uncommonly direct young man. Ivo muttered something about the atmosphere and the light, but really he wanted the picture of the handsome young man. 

Tom gave him a speculative look, as if he could easily guess Ivo’s motivations. 

“If you’d like,” he said easily. “Where would you like me to stand?” 

“Over there,” Ivo said, gesturing to the largest and most showy rosebush, which seemed to be simply frothing with vivid red blooms. Tom stood obediently in front of it and lifted his head and smiled as Ivo instructed. Once the flash had gone off, Ivo was busy seeing to his camera and gathering his supplies. When he was about to tell Tom when his picture would be ready, Ivo couldn’t find him anywhere. 

Puzzled at Tom’s quick exit, Ivo took his equipment and left. He was to be lodged at the gatehouse -- the Finches had even allowed him the use of a little closet space that he could make into a dark room. 

As his photographs developed, Ivo was pleased -- he had been taking pictures all throughout his journey from London, then through his tour of the house and gardens. A good proportion of them had turned out well -- except --

He frowned and pulled out his very last photograph of the day, that of the mysterious Tom Lynn. As it dried on the clothesline, Ivo noticed that there were certain distortions on the print which hadn’t been on any of the others. 

The light had been failing, and perhaps that could explain some of the shadows, but it did really seem as though Tom’s lone figure was surrounded by strange, crouching shapes. Could there have been some animals lurking among the rose bushes that Ivo had failed to observe? It was almost as if the picture had been taken underwater, with the shows of light and dark in the rose garden -- a strange, drowned world, full of secrets.

He was at a loss to explain it. 

But stranger still was the figure of Tom Lynn himself, who seemed to be lit up with a light that Ivo knew hadn’t been there. He looked -- Ivo had been to a church in France during the war, which had taken a direct hit from an ordnance. A statue of Saint Sebastian had been flung into the muck of the road outside the church, where Ivo had had a chance to take a picture of it. It had been a picture of sensuous suffering, repellent and attractive at once. Tom looked as if he knew all the secrets of the world -- and found them of little worth. 

What could have caused this light to highlight Tom’s body like that? Ivo examined the stripe and made another print. It was the same as before -- a strange and haunting image. 

“What are those things?” Ivo asked himself in the silence of the room. He doubted that the photograph would be of much use to the Society. It wasn’t a lady in black floating up a grand staircase, or a brick suspended in the air. Some skeptics would say that Ivo had doctored the print -- Ivo would have suspected the same, in their shoes. But he hadn’t. And now he was determined to find out what had caused such strangeness.

In the morning, he sent a copy of the print, along with the negative and a brief letter, to Palmerston, his superior at the Society. When he returned to Carterhaugh, he found the place in a state of some disorder. Lady Finch explained that her husband had returned from some time abroad and had asked them to come down and see him. 

“How wonderful for you,” Ivo said weakly. “My investigation is only starting, but…” 

“You may stay here, Mr. Carter,” said Lady Finch disapprovingly. “Although Lavinia tells me that you were in the rose garden at dusk. I would not recommend that. There is nothing worth seeing then. And of course, you know that no one is allowed to pick the roses without permission.” 

“Of course, Lady Finch,” Ivo said, wondering why in the world he should want to pick a rose at all. 

The Finches departed from Carterhaugh in almost unseemly haste, and Ivo had more time to investigate the rose garden. He did not see Tom again, and when he asked one of the junior gardeners about him, the lad only looked at him askance. 

He didn’t know anyone matching Tom’s description at all, he said. Perhaps Mr. Carter had confused Carterhaugh with somewhere else…? 

It was absurd. When Ivo developed the photographs from his second day at the rose garden, everything was as it should be. Nothing supernatural or strange about it at all. 

Late on the third day, Ivo’s patience snapped. He’d received a reply from Palmerston, who did not seem impressed with his findings. In his reply, he’d implied strongly that an experienced war photographer like Ivo should have more sense than to be taken in by some splotches on the film. 

Perhaps, Palmerston suggested delicately, Ivo should return home and see if he couldn’t make another go at society photography, if he was so interested in capturing handsome young devils…

That really was the breaking point. Palmerston had never respected him, and now Ivo suspected that as soon as he returned to London, he would be out of a job as well. His father would be understanding, as always, but the shame of going home once again with nothing to show for it…

Ivo stormed into the rose garden, yanking open the metal gates so roughly that they shrieked. It was dusk and no one was about. The silence was absolute -- even the wood pigeons that cooed so incessantly in the trees had stilled. Ivo paced on the soft, green grass, his mind throwing out one scenario after another. He couldn’t go home without having something to show for his efforts. He hated that he had done so much and yet none of it seemed to mean anything. He wished he could simply not _be_ anymore. 

He’d come too close to the roses -- a long, wicked thorn embedded itself in his jacket. He tried to free himself, but it only seemed to make the problem worse. Finally, he took off the jacket and let it fall on the ground. 

A heavy fall of roses, two to a stem, brushed against his hand. One bloom especially seemed to reach out for him. It seemed almost mocking in its insolent beauty. Ivo had never considered himself the sort of person to take out his anger on innocent things. But for some reason, he reached out and plucked out the double rose with his bare hands. 

The thorns cut the tips of his fingers, angering him more. He ripped the petals away from the stem and threw them up in the air. They showered down on him, a gust of wind swirling them around him. The scent was almost intoxicating. 

“You fool,” said a strong voice near him. Ivo didn’t need to turn around to know that it belonged to Tom Lynn. “Didn’t they warn you not to pluck the roses?” 

Ivo turned to him. Tom was hunched over the rose bush, which seemed now like a stricken maiden. Ivo sneered to hide his confusion. He knew he had been perfectly alone just moments ago. 

“My family,” Ivo said, his voice loud. “All of this used to belong to them. I know I have no claims to it now, but who would begrudge me a single rose?” 

Tom raised a single dark brow. “Have you no learning? Read not a single fairy tale? Much can be bargained over a rose like this.” 

“It’s one of many,” Ivo protested, feeling as if they were arguing for more than a rose. He didn’t understand what Tom was saying about fairy tales. Why should those matter now, in a world where all sweet stories had been blown away? But then again, a man grown who should talk so seriously of fairy tales could not be wholly rational. Softer, he said, “No one would notice it was missing.” 

“She would.” 

“Lady Finch?” 

Tom laughed, a harsh and discordant sound. “No, not Lady Finch. She is a lady who has presided over these woods long before the Finches, and the Carters too. She owns every rose and every knight who is obliged to guard them. Anyone who breaks her rules is punished. Severely punished.” 

“You’re a mad man,” Ivo said. He turned to go but when he came to the gate, he found it locked, and no matter how much he shook it, the lock stuck fast. The gate was overgrown with roses, the thorns visible even in the gloom of the evening. 

When Tom approached him with quiet steps, Ivo sighed. “Listen, I’ll replace the rose and apologize to your lady. Is there another way to get out?” 

“There is only one way,” Tom said, unbuttoning his shirt. Ivo stared at him, bewildered. “Those who wear gold in their hair and have the temerity to pluck the double rose owe me their maidenhead.” 

Ivo touched his always-tousled sandy hair. Calling it _gold_ would be a definite exaggeration. But that wasn’t the issue. He straightened his spine and glared at Tom. “You can’t possibly expect me to … give you my maidenhead. I haven’t got one.” 

“Your virginity is fine,” Tom said, with a long-suffering air about him. He had been creeping closer to Ivo as they spoke, and when Ivo was about to protest, he pushed forward and caught Ivo’s chin, tilted it forward and kissed him. It was a rough, angry kiss and Tom ended it in a bite. 

When Ivo pushed him away, Tom caught him by the hand. He grimaced. “It is really better for both of us if you don’t struggle. Do you think I want to fuck every idiot who comes through this place and flagrantly ignores the rules?” 

“Then don’t,” Ivo said between gritted teeth. He felt Tom’s cold hand unbuttoned his trousers. When he tried to squirm away, Tom pressed closer, pushing Ivo against the roses and the gate. “You can stop anytime.” 

“You had a choice,” Tom whispered savagely. “You were _warned_. You still did it.” 

His hand on Ivo’s cock was a revelation. To Ivo’s horror, he found himself hardening in Tom’s hand. Tom smiled, a thin, nasty smile. But he did not look an ounce uglier, which seemed cruel to Ivo. He brought Ivo to hardness quickly, and though he made no comment on how easy it was, Ivo was painfully aware of it. 

When Ivo came in his hand, Tom brought his thumb to his mouth and licked it. Then he took the handkerchief from Ivo’s pocket and cleaned his hand, dropping it on the ground when he was done. Their eyes met and Tom nodded toward the greensward. “Unless you like getting scratched?” 

“Why are you doing this?” Ivo asked weakly, letting himself be led to the lawn and collapsing on it. He felt hideously, appallingly weak. He only put up the barest defense as Tom stripped him of his trousers and unbuttoned his shirt. 

Tom ran a hand down Ivo’s chest, murmuring in appreciation. He lingered on a scar across Ivo’s belly, a souvenir of a too-close bullet. 

“Where did you get this?” Tom asked, his voice low and intimate. Ivo came back to himself for long enough to slap Tom across the face. It must’ve stung him, because he pulled back for a moment, before he let out a started laugh. 

“I got it in Verdun,” Ivo said impatiently. “Fuck me if you feel you must, but don’t pretend you’re interested.” 

“Oh, dear Ivo. I won’t make it unpleasant for you.” Tom said this fondly enough but Ivo couldn’t understand him. He was stiff and uncomfortable as Tom worked his will on him -- he used a tin of Ivo’s own pomade to loosen his hole, another unkind liberty. 

Ivo had never -- he’d had a boy he’d loved, of course, but poor Andrew had never dared, and then he had died so wretchedly. To think of Andrew now, however, was a cruelty in itself. So he focused on what Tom was doing and how it felt. The problem was that it was not -- unpleasant. It was as if Ivo’s whole body felt a sort of hunger to be touched, however roughly, and when Tom kissed him, it felt as if he was doing it to someone he loved. 

Groaning, Ivo felt Tom’s cock enter him. And he knew, as wrong and as terrible as it doubtless was, there was some part of him that was pleased, that begged for more, and stronger. He hated that part of himself, but it could not be denied. 

As Tom pushed himself into Ivo and pulled out again, the two of them began to find a wild sort of rhythm. If Ivo had paid more attention to the classics, he would no doubt have thought of a good reference for it. As it was, he thought of those poor mortal girls, pinned down by a god and forced to take it. 

That was his fate too. Then, he came, with Tom’s hands on his cock. 

*

Ivo woke up with the sharpest headache of his life. He was tucked in his bed in the gatehouse. For a moment, he wondered if it had all been a dream, but the sharp stinging across his body put an end to such hopes. He was scratched up across his back and his hands, and though he was dressed in his nightshirt, he found little spots of blood on the white lawn fabric. 

On his belly, right over his old scar, was a strange red stain. When he touched it, he felt a tingle. 

There was nothing more he could do than dress and collect his equipment, and take the next train back to London. 

*

It was three-quarters of a year later, while waiting for an appointment with an engaged couple, that Ivo saw Miss Finch again. She was almost unrecognizable, having shingled her long blonde hair— the very picture of a modern young woman. When she wandered into Ivo’s studio, she gasped and clutched her fiancé’s hand. “Mr. Carter! What are you doing here?”

“I work here, Miss Finch,” said Ivo, reaching up to adjust the lights. “How are your mother and father?” 

“Oh, they’re all right. I didn’t think _you_ would be the John Carter Sam was raving about,” she said, taking a seat in front of the backdrop, without asking for permission. Her fiancé stood next to her, a dutiful look on his face. “He would love to have you for our wedding as well. We’re having it at Carterhaugh in the autumn.” 

“I don’t usually go so far for weddings,” Ivo said warily. “There’s a lot of equipment to keep track of.”

“Please, Mr. Carter,” said Miss Finch appealingly. “You’re so in-demand lately and we’re getting married so late in the year! Please do it, Sam and I will be so delighted.” 

Sam Hurst, Miss Finch’s fiancé, finally spoke up. He offered a quote that made Ivo’s head spin. If he did this wedding, he wouldn’t have to work for the next three months.

Ivo found himself agreeing to photograph the Finch-Hurst wedding. He promised himself that he wouldn’t ever stray into the rose garden, nor would he be drawn into any supernatural nonsense. That part of his life had definitively come to an end. 

Yes, he still had strange dreams about the garden, filled with visions of rotting roses and beauty, shot through with fear. And Tom, Ivo dreamed of him too, dreams that were filled with the most unspeakable longing and dread. But those dreams would soon fade away, like the ones he had of the war. After all, what was a night of discomfort to years of death and horror?

Perhaps it would be a good thing to return to Carterhaugh. He would be able to exorcise at least a few of his own demons. 

*

The ball that followed the wedding was a glittering affair, attended by people with such piercing beauty that Ivo wondered what was wrong with what he was seeing. The bride, the groom and their families and friends were pleasant enough, but the other guests seemed far removed from them. The two sides of the party seemed to ignore each other. 

Ivo felt as though he was the only one who noticed the other guests at all. But something in the back of his mind warned him not to stare or draw attention to himself. He moved through the crowd as if he was invisible -- just a chap with a camera, nothing more. Barely above the help, in truth. 

When he felt a brush against his shoulder, Ivo jerked back. Next to him was the loveliest woman he had ever seen. So fair was she that Ivo was at a loss as to how to describe her. She was dark, perhaps. Her eyes were maybe grey. When she smiled, it was the same sparkling beauty of moonlight on water. 

She was accompanied by a familiar figure — the dashing figure of Tom Lynn.

Ivo felt a stab of jealousy the likes of which he had never experienced before. This must have been the mysterious lady that Tom served, for whose sake he had hurt him. She was lovely, Ivo could see that clear, but her actions made her cruel.

Tom had rid himself of his old-fashioned clothes and now wore sleek evening dress. His expression of stiff boredom did not change when he saw Ivo, although his mouth twitched for a moment when it seemed as though his lovely companion would speak to him. 

Ivo stepped back and took a picture. He turned his head away, as if he had not noticed the two of them. The woman drew herself up and turned to Tom. “These gatherings grow duller and more appalling every year, Tam Lin.”

“You still haven’t recovered from electric lighting,” Tom murmured. He stretched and Ivo felt something drop into his pocket. The couple drifted away and Ivo unfolded the bit of paper Tom had smuggled to him.

_Meet me in the library at eight._

It would be the height of foolishness to go anywhere Tom would be waiting. And Ivo wasn’t a fool, he knew it.

Nonetheless, at eight o’clock, Ivo found himself at the library. When the door opened, he looked up. Tom was there.

“I didn’t think you would come,” Tom said, rushing inside. In a few steps, he was face to face with Ivo. A moment later, he tried to kiss him. Ivo warded him off.

“Explain what’s happening here,” Ivo said. “Who are these people and why can I — _see_ them when no one else can?”

“It’s the fairy ointment,” Tom said. “I spread it on your eyes last time. I thought an artist like yourself should have a chance to see hidden things and people.”

“Fairies —” Ivo felt as though the wind had completely gone out of his sails. He wanted to argue. Fairies belonged in children’s tales, not attending a wedding in Scotland. And yet he remembered the lovely woman’s eyes, cold and not human. He remembered how the stranger guests drifted in between the bridal party. They had never touched, never spoken to anyone ordinary. They were apart. They were strange. They were fairies. 

Ivo looked at Tom dubiously. “Are you a fairy?”

“No, not at all. I’m the grandson of the Earl of Roxburgh — the Queen of Fairies stole me away long ago. I took her roses too, you know. But I am still human.”

Ivo tried to think of the history of the place, which his meek and mild father was so interested in. History was the only thing their family had to claim, along with some ancient church vaults. He knew that the last Earl of Roxburgh had died four centuries ago.

“Well. Congratulations on your humanity, but I must rejoin the party.” 

Tom put a hand on Ivo’s arm.

“I know I have no right to ask this from you, but the tithe the Queen pays to hell is due. She intends to sacrifice me and I can only be saved by the actions of a mortal champion. I only have you to ask.”

“Why would I?” Ivo unbuttoned his jacket and then his shirt, presenting the red scar that covered his belly. “The last time I saw you, you gave me this!”

“Just another scar,” Tom said dismissively. “I’ve plenty.” 

“Why would I save you?” Ivo asked, buttoning his shirt back up. “You've done nothing but trick me and assault me. Perhaps you belong in Hell.” 

Tom drew himself up and seemed as if he would defend himself, but instead he leaned back against the bookshelf. He shrugged. “I can’t defend myself. I have wronged you. I suppose I thought you wouldn’t leave someone to die.” 

“If you’re as old as you say, you should’ve died long ago.” 

Tom winced, putting a hand over his heart as if he had been struck. “Centuries of haunting a rose garden. Don’t you pity me?” 

“No,” Ivo said coldly. “We all have our duties.” 

“And yours was always to witness things. Preserve it. Never interfere. Haven’t you grown sick of it? Here’s a chance for you to do something. Save me. I swear if you do, I will dedicate my life to you.” 

He said it so intensely that Ivo’s heart gave a queer jolt. He believed Tom Lynn, though perhaps he ought not have. 

“You’re trying to manipulate me,” Ivo said, letting Tom draw him closer. Tom pressed his cheek against Ivo’s. He caressed Ivo’s scar, his touch cool and soothing against Ivo’s hot skin. 

“Is it working?” Tom asked him tenderly. 

Ivo nodded. 

The smile Tom gave him was radiantly beautiful. Then, he whispered in Ivo’s ear what he should do next. 

*

Ivo was obligated to take more photographs as the night wore on. It was long past midnight when he stole out of the house and made his way to the crossroads, where the fairies were set to sacrifice Tom. From the undergrowth, Ivo saw a long line of automobiles -- all long and sleek vehicles, of the latest fashion -- drive through, even though the path seemed too narrow and overgrown for them. 

Tom was driving the very last automobile and the Queen was sitting beside him. At exactly three o’clock, the engine stalled and the automobile ground to a stop. Ivo darted in and opened the door, dragging Tom out. The Queen sprang up and cried, “Tam Lin is away!” 

It was as Tom had told him -- even though Ivo could feel Tom’s body pressed against his, the scene around him changed. He was no longer in a shady country lane in Scotland, but rather in a trench somewhere in France. The sun beat down on him pitiless and hot; sticky mud welled up from the ground and nuzzled at his ankles. The stench of death was everywhere, but especially in the thing he carried. It was not Tom, but rather Andrew as Ivo had last seen him. 

Andrew had been his friend for so long -- they had grown up together, it was Andrew who had first called him Ivo -- and the day they had reunited in Verdun was also the day Andrew died. 

The thing in Ivo’s arms was no longer Andrew, though they shared the same freckles that dotted its skin and the same blue eyes. But the skin was torn and grey, and only one blue eye had survived the direct hit from the shell. 

Through his horror and shamed loathing, Ivo hung on stubbornly. The corpse twisted in his arms, winked its good eye and caressed Ivo’s check with a bloody stump of a hand. The touch was so cold that the chill seemed to settle into Ivo’s bones. 

Ivo grit his teeth and waited. Eventually the thing in his arms shifted and changed, as Tom had said it would. Heat replaced cold, burning heat. 

Ivo blinked. They were back on the country lane. Everyone had disappeared except for the lone figure of the Queen of Fairies. Her anger and disdain were palpable.

Tom was a burning iron brand in Ivo’s arms, and slowly and painfully, Ivo dragged him off the road, towards the nearby mill pond. The sun was rising in the east, staining the deep blue sky with reds and golds. 

They plunged into the murky green water and the heat and burning abruptly stopped. Instead, Ivo felt Tom pulling him out. They clutched at each other and Ivo noticed hazily that Tom was completely naked. Rather than having to confront this, Ivo took off his shirt and passed it over to him. 

It was dawn -- everything seemed to take on a new solidity and strength, including Tom and himself. If Ivo examined too closely what had happened before, he would break apart. He couldn’t do it, and so he focused on what was ahead. 

“Is it over?” Ivo asked Tom, who was still and staring over his shoulder. Ivo turned to see the Queen approach them. She did not seem as enraged as Ivo had expected. She sighed, her finery looking more and more bedraggled as the sun grew stronger. She was a creature of moonlight. 

“You are the brave sort,” she mused. “Would you like to serve me instead? I must say, I grow tired of Tam Lin’s antics. He’ll come back to me when you die, you know.” 

“I’d rather you threaten to take my eyes again,” Tom said. 

“I’ll do that as well,” said the Queen carelessly. “Well, farewell for now, Tam Lin.” 

She disappeared with a ringing laugh. Ivo knew that she had won, at least in the long run. He turned to Tom, who was shivering in the early November air. 

“Is she right? You’re only free until I’m dead?” Ivo asked. “If I dropped dead tomorrow, you’re back to being sacrificed?” 

“It’s no good to think about it that way,” Tom said cheerfully. “There’s another seven years until the tithe has to be paid again.” 

“Well, that’s all right then,” Ivo said, not bothering to keep the sarcasm from his voice. He followed Tom away from the road, and was not surprised that they found themselves back in the rose garden. It was the end of the season and most of the roses had been cut back. 

But there were enough for Tom to gather into an imperfect bouquet. He offered it to Ivo, who accepted it after a moment’s hesitation. It was a new day and a new world. He stole another look at Tom, who seemed lost in this new world. 

Ivo sighed and took Tom’s hand. 

“Come along,” he said. “You don’t have to stay in the rose garden forever. There are other places I can show you.” 

Tom smiled and accepted his offer. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta, E!
> 
> \- Bits of Ivo's backstory is taken from [John Warwick Brooke](https://digital.nls.uk/first-world-war-official-photographs/archive/75171408) and [Ernest Brooks](https://digital.nls.uk/first-world-war-official-photographs/archive/75171407). 
> 
> \- Ivo's name is inspired by Ivor Novello, beautiful twenties icon. 
> 
> \- [The Society of Psychical Research](https://www.spr.ac.uk/) is still running, apparently. An absolutely classic website. 
> 
> \- The bewildering world of [Tam Lin-turature](http://www.tam-lin.org/) can be explored here in another lovely retro web fashion. I borrowed bits and bobs from various versions. My favorite part -- oft discarded -- is the Queen of Fairies regretting not taking Tam Lin's eyes and replacing them with stones. One simply must stan.


End file.
